


The Unlikely Hero

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: British Sign Language, Curiosity, Deaf Reader, Death, F/M, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, Intrigue, Rape, Rescue, Sexual Abuse, Sexual References, Vampire Feeding, children's home abuse, domestic abuse, references to violence, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:27:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26404213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: Sometimes Dracula feeds off people who deserve it...
Relationships: Dracula/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	The Unlikely Hero

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chibicheeberson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibicheeberson/gifts).



> So...chibicheeberson suggested this request a very long time ago: Reader is in a domestic abuse relationship and is also deaf. Maybe they meet Dracula after a bad night while he is out prowling for food. He doesn't hurt them obviously but is curious about what is happening to them. Reader’s SO likes to beat but keep the injuries in conspicuous places. Drac goes out of way to learn sign language to be able to communicate and ultimately helps reader escape the abusive relationship. He sees the deep sadness in their eyes and especially after a bad night, their eyes are dull and lifeless.
> 
> What I didn't tell them then was that I had some personal stuff going on, which made it difficult for me to feel motivated to write this at the time. Time has passed since then, which has helped me and I've also done a ton of other stuff that needed to be done, which freed me up enough to feel like I could write this when the mood struck. So that is what I've done.
> 
> chibicheeberson I really hope that this is a nice surprise for you and that you are doing well. Sorry that it took so long and for thinking that I could not do this! Turns out all I needed was time.

At first glance the quiet English country track, marred with marks left by a Range Rover and which leads to a faded white ramshackle house appears to be lifeless. Then a sudden _breeze_ whispers up its path, causing the blades of grass on either side of it to whistle, before there is a _greater_ disturbance in the small woods on the edge of the property. A figure dressed in black steps out of the trees, licking blood off long and pointed fingernails. The figure pauses for a moment, still grooming itself. A satisfied sigh leaves the male figure-more out of habit than anything else because the figure is not breathing-before he steps forwards, making to walk diagonally past the property. He has gone a little distance when his refined senses give him reason to pause. He feels like someone is watching him. It cannot be the moon because not even a star adorns the sky, which has made the night a particularly _delicious_ one for hunting. Dracula glances up. The red draining from his eyes after he has fed leave them in a state of a mostly inviting and charismatic brown, though they _do_ spike with red again, as they skim the house with a barely disguised contempt. A long time ago, he is sure, the house would have been _far_ grander and impressive than it is now, not as good as the one that he has back home perhaps, but a better reminder of it. He feels a savage _fury_ towards the being who has let it get into this state of disrepair with its roof in need of mending and its black marks on the painted stone as if a giant finger, perhaps belonging to the God that some humans so adore and dipped in paint, has come down to stain the once glossy white forever. An impatience too with the same man who he has seen ruining the fields, which belong to the property with one of his numerous off-road vehicles, by churning up the dirt with them every weekend and laughing uproariously as he does such a thing, spinning the vehicle around in a way that makes quite a din. If it had been the _man_ who Dracula had seen watching him that night, then it might have been unfortunate…for the _man._ It isn’t, however, and Dracula’s mouth takes on the shape of surprise and then a _curious_ kind of delight forms upon his face as he sees that a woman is watching him from one of the upstairs windows. He has smelt her scent around the place before, but never seen her and has often _wondered_ what sort of life she leads, that being one of the things that draws him to the place. Unbeknownst to him, for Dracula is asleep at that time, the man is usually out in the day in the week, but the property is usually quiet by the time that Dracula gets there at that time of night, which suits him in terms of draining his victims and feeding on them in a more private way. The woods are _also_ useful for disposal. He smiles and offers the woman a wave. Her eyes are on him and though they _prick_ with some signs of life once his attention is on her, mostly they are as dull and lifeless as those of the victim that he has just drained. Her h/c hair hangs around her head, lank and greasy. Dracula lowers his hand falteringly, but feels all the _more_ intrigued by her. He knows that _he_ isn’t the cause of her looking like that, is aware that _he_ doesn’t even know her at all and that he has never even seen her before, so _why_ is she looking so dazed and as if she does not belong to this world? Like she has just been bitten and tasted? He gives a little sniff, but no, no other vampires have been in the area, no brides of his have gone astray. 

*

F/N looks on in apprehension as the man, who her eyes had fixed on, so unusual and unexpected was anyone’s presence on the property at this time of night, for people are usually _respectful_ of their privacy [much to her despair] stares at her for a moment, a smile beckoning over his tilted face. There is uncertainty there too, however, and her heart _drops_ when he pulls his attention away from her and takes a couple more steps towards the other side of the property, as if he might disappear into the darkness again. She chides herself as soon as she realizes what she’s thinking. Has she _really_ become so without autonomy that she’s depending on a _stranger_ to rescue her? A trespasser nonetheless. To notice and to not forget? To _not_ move on from her? She’d been scared when he’d first looked at her, that is true, though the relief of knowing that the open mouth behind her was more than likely snoring had settled her somewhat, but she realizes, in that moment, that she is more frightened from the prospect of _not_ being seen, _not_ being heard.

She looks behind her again, remembering as she sees the less threatening figure of her partner asleep how it had come to all of this. He is the son of the manager of the children’s home that she’d been brought up in. Due to her disability-being deaf-she had often gotten into trouble. For a long while people had just thought that she was being stupid or slow, before a check-up-the home had never tried to avoid them so as to avoid suspicion-had discovered her hearing loss. _That_ hadn’t excused her, however, and for their comments not being obeyed straight away, the manager had punished her on behalf of the collective staff and made her hurt on the inside every time that he’d forced himself on her on the beat up settee inside his office. When she’d gotten too _old_ to live in the children’s home any longer she’d been informed that because of her disability she’d struggle out in the real world. The manager had told her that he’d _still_ wanted to take care of her, however, and had punished her again when she’d protested. She’d been told that he’d _known_ who was the right person for the job and she’d ended up with his son who _too_ had seemed to find that she needed regular punishment-not just through rough treatment sexually either, but through punching her and burning her in places that would not be seen if she’d left the house-check-ups were no longer a necessary requirement. Not that she left the house much any more in the _first_ place. For her sense of physical preservation she’d _long_ since stopped trying to go out by her self, though somewhere in her mind, as had become evident in the early hours of that morning, she hoped that since she had not successfully managed to escape by herself she would be rescued by someone. Someone who would _perhaps_ make the effort to learn sign language, as though she’d managed to learn herself in snatches during the day on their dodgy, stuttering Internet-something that she’d been beaten for and told not to get ideas in her head when she’d been caught-no one she’d known had _ever_ bothered to learn themselves or to make her feel included. In fact her latest caretaker had even gone so far as to threaten to bury her in one of the fields when she was being _particularly_ annoying in his view [often when she had done nothing wrong at all.] 

She looks back to the ground and a spark of _joy_ fills her eyes when she sees that the stranger is now stood in the middle of her vision and staring at her. That he hasn’t _left_ her after all! 

He gestures for her to open the window and she does such a thing hesitantly. 

“I’d like to get to know you,” he calls up to her.  
She reads the words on his lips and _both_ feels that stab of optimism and apprehension again. She doesn’t want to speak because of her captor being in such close proximity to her and because people have tended to laugh or to say that she sounds like an ogre when she talks.  
“Why don’t you tell me your name?” The man looks up at her hopefully. 

Shyly she touches at her ears, before she puts her palms flat as a barrier against them and shakes her head. She points at her ears for good measure, hoping that he will get the message about her disability and that it _won’t_ put him off her like it seems to have done with everyone else. That he’ll be the _exception_ to the rule. 

The man nods slowly and seems to be thinking about it all. He lifts a finger. “Wait there.” He points at his watch, before he draws a rotation of time with his finger and she notices his impressive nail. “Tomorrow? Tomorrow yes? I’ll be back then.” She nods eagerly. “Maybe you could let me in when I come?” She shakes her head wildly, before she points behind her. “Oh, I _see!_ You don’t want to with him there?” She tosses her head again, but is it her imagination or do the man’s eyes _cloud_ with something dark and red? She stills a little and tells herself inwardly that she must have been dreaming when his eyes appear to be just as soft and indulgent as they had been ever since the conversation with her had begun. It must have been the night sky crowding in on her vision, she thinks. “I’ll be back.” She misses the determination on his face and that it is there at the further evidence that there is something _more_ that is going on with her other than her disability and the need, now that he knows a little, to fill in his gaps of knowledge of her. 

She watches him walk away and spends the next day _praying_ and hoping for empathy and a release from her both mental and physical captivity. Her lack of concentration means that she is _marred_ with fresh bruises, as punishment for burning dinner, but for once she feels like it’s all _worth_ it. That is until the handsome stranger does not come back that night _or_ the one after and she begins to lose hope in the human race again and become disappointed. 

She almost doesn’t _check_ on the third night, but there he is, like a prince waiting beneath a balcony for her in the princess books that she’d have to try and decipher _herself_ when she was younger because no one would read them to her. He is stood a little closer to her that night, but still at a reasonable distance. When he signs, _‘Hello,’_ she has to stifle her gasps and the fact that she begins to weep. 

It is not enough, however, and she doesn’t even _realize_ that her attempts to stop herself from being detected have failed until there is a sudden pain in her shoulder and she is being flung from the window seat to the floor. Winded she pants for breath, her head close to the rickety wooden wardrobe on the far side of the room, unable to hear the no doubt _surprised_ exclamation from the man below at her disappearance or the angry threat to get a shotgun that flies out of the window from the man that she has been saddled with. She can _feel_ the fury that radiates from him though, but before he can make good on his promise something _astonishing_ happens-the glass from the window explodes. 

As the shards fly inward and she realizes what is happening she flings her arms up in order to cover her face, missing the pain-filled whimper that her potential rescuer gives as he feels the initial hurt that the piercing glass causes him, but her captor does not. 

Trying to take advantage of a possible moment of weakness and _not_ counting on the rage of the other man to be able to pull him through her captor tries to push against him and force him back. The pair grapple and F/N pushes herself to sit upright against the wardrobe, watching in astonishment as the stranger lifts her tormentor up as if he weighs nothing at all. The only light is the silvery one of the moon and it outlines the men’s bodies. The newer one to her sees her watching, _and,_ as he holds up her abuser with one hand, gestures that she might like to close her eyes with his other. 

She does such a thing for a moment, but because of her hearing loss she relies on her sight all the more and feels as if she is cut off, feeling all the _more_ disorientated when she sees a bigger light outside of her eyelids and all the shadows that are passing by. Her eyes flick open. 

She may have only had them shut for a moment, but it is as if her entire _world_ has changed. The bedroom lamp, on and spilling its light madly as it moves, is swinging down from the remnants of the splintered bedside cabinet as if it is trying to do a bungee jump out of there. The duvet on the bed is rumpled and on top of it lies her captor, only his still posture tells her, as she stands and creeps closer to the scene, whilst she barely breathes, that he is unable to hold anything that is prey any more, his neck broken at the angle that it’s at. 

What _really_ captures her attention, however, is that her apparent rescuer is crouched in a huddle by his side, his mouth fixed upon her abuser’s neck. She takes a step closer, her head arching down to be more at his level and to be able to see what’s _really_ going on. Is there honestly _blood_ being sucked from her tormentor and billowing around the stranger’s mouth? Or has she gone into shock? The man looks up at her and she sees that it’s true. Blood _is_ smeared around his cheeks and gushes from his mouth and down his chin like a waterfall. His eyes are red. Are those _fangs_ that she sees? 

“Close your eyes my sweet,” he tells her once the blood has subsided enough for her to be able to lip read, his eyes less red for a fleeting moment. 

Falteringly she takes a couple of steps back from the scene, so that she is against the wall and places her palms over her eyes. Every now and again she cannot _resist_ taking a peek, however, and the sight of the man feasting fixates her for several long seconds on end, giving her more a _thrill_ than a scare at someone carrying out revenge in that way, before she remembers herself again and slides her hands over her gaping eyes. 

Minutes pass in this way until there comes a point when she feels large, warm and slightly damp hands upon her wrists, gently encouraging her arms away from her body and her eyes away from her face. Her eyes are shy, but _curious,_ as she looks at him, this strange man who has rescued her. His raven hair has come undone and strands curl over his forehead. His eyes change colour like an object in the sun as they go from a red to brown. Blood stains the lower part of his face, filling in the minor creases around his strong jaw. His mouth is open, as if in a relieved pant and she can see his wonky teeth, blunter than they had appeared over her tormentor. She touches down the side of his jaw and then at one of his teeth. He obliges and allows her interest, but his entire body _twitches_ in an apparent struggle for self-control. Her fingers jump as a result of such a thing and their eyes catch against one another, his pupils dilating hungrily and turning more predatory, a curved smile painting his face, before her hand goes to his ripped sleeve and the cut that she is able to see there in between the scuffed fabric. As she traces it her eyes are filled with concern. 

“It will heal in no time,” he assures her once she looks back at him. She blinks, wondering if she has understood him correctly. Then she watches in astonishment as he pinches at the skin around the cut and twists it gently. There is a ripple and then, once the mark is revealed to her again she sees that it already looks as if it has been several days since he’d obtained it. She can’t _believe_ what she has just seen! Her expression turns into one of joy and she suddenly flings herself on him, her loud, uneven laugh filling the air. Could he do that with _her_ body as well? He seems to read what she is feeling, however, and his face, which had been one of delighted amusement at her action, turns more sombre and protective, as he pushes her gently back from him and runs a hand soothingly through her hair. _‘You are hurt?’_ he signs after slowly drawing his hand away from her. She shakes her head. “Before? He hurt you before though?” he speaks the words this time, a powerful and dangerous feeling running through him like lightning at the possibility. Slowly, and looking more responsible for it all, she nods. Dracula’s jaw tightens, but he tries to hold himself back-he has already _had_ his revenge after all. “I cannot heal you, like I heal me”-he gestures between them-“But I promise you,” he tells her fervently, “On my honour, yes? That no such person will ever hurt you again and stain you like this _house_ has been stained for all these years.”

She is about to ask him _how_ he can make sure of such a thing, but when he gathers her up into his arms and her _own_ wind themselves around his neck and she feels so _safe_ as he carries her out of the room and downstairs there is suddenly no longer a _need_ for her to ask. 

Dracula finds the living room and switches on the light [getting a small amount of pleasure from the noise that it makes, as he always does] before he takes her across, so that he can deposit her on the worn, blue settee. He sits down on the transparent coffee table. He can smell dried blood on its edge from an old injury of hers and doubt begins to creep into his mind as to her well state, even though she has just told him of such a thing. She adjusts herself into a more upright position and they face one another. 

“Will you let me?” he gestures at her body and further asks with his eyes for permission to check her for injuries. She nods at him slowly. He moves down to crouch before her, doing such a thing bit by bit so as not to startle her. She looks at him hopefully, already with some trust in her eyes. He begins to pat her nightdress down, but there is no glass that had struck her skin waiting to be removed. [He had already worked out when he’d approached her in the bedroom that there had been no fresh blood.] He turns her bare arms, _frowning_ when he sees the bruise and burn marks that are there, but being quick to reassure her all the time with eye-contact, well-enunciated words and careful touches that none of it is her fault. By the time that he gets to her legs she almost feels normal _and_ beautiful and she shivers at having his hands upon her bare thighs. He feels such a thing and looks at her. His eyes flood with a heady red and black desire at seeing her back half-against the arm of the settee as she lies there, her knees up and legs open. _Now,_ and at the stare of permission that she gives him, he shifts, hooking his hands around her knees and sliding her effortlessly towards where he is perched by her toes. She lets out a bit of a gasp as he smothers her body protectively with his. 

He plants a kiss upon her neck, sending a numbing cool sensation there, before he looks into her eyes again. “Now tell me your name precious one?” 

“F/N.”

_“F/N?”_ she sees him repeat and she bucks into him a little as she wishes that she could hear him say it. She wonders what his voice sounds like, but imagines that it’s as attractive as the rest of him is. _“Perfect.”_

He begins to make further administrations upon her, but she taps at his chest to make him pause. 

“What is yours?” she asks him a little clumsily when he looks at her. 

The smile on his face broadens at her curiosity. _“Dracula.”_

She mouths the name and then moans and giggles at the ticklish sensation of him kissing at her face and then gradually further along her body, as her nightdress is disposed of. She whimpers occasionally and he always meets her eyes whenever she does such a thing, making sure that she is all right. Most of the time it appears that she is merely _overwhelmed_ from being with someone in this way-that she has not had someone _genuinely_ care for her needs and he finds the human race astonishing. They scorn someone like _him_ when they are able to cause such damage to someone as beautiful and innocent as F/N! It makes little sense to him. In those times when his actions appear to be a little bit _too_ rough for her, however, he soothes her quickly with his fingers, waiting until he can feel the tension disappear from her body, before he starts his work anew in another area. 

She is careful with him as well, running curious, but delicate fingers over the scars on his pale body once she has peeled back his shirt enough for her to be able to do such a thing, observing the way that some of them crisscross or the way that some of them appear deeper than others. She kisses at them in turn and it makes his body spill over with desire and causes him to jerk because of it. 

Slowly she rids him of his trousers and underwear and looks astonished again. 

He tilts her chin up towards his face and adorns her own with a few kisses that urge for compliance, before he encourages her to properly lie down on the settee. She shifts and adjusts accordingly. 

Using one elbow to keep himself propped around her he lines himself up with her entrance, arching his body slightly and running his once again elongated fangs against the skin of her neck, as he hilts himself inside of her. She cries out at the dual sensations. He steadies them both and then slowly begins to move, not being able to wait any longer, his hand gently around her breast to encourage her into action. 

She moves in turn until he is snapping against her and dominating her completely and then they come simultaneously, Dracula taking further pleasure from the few droplets of blood that he manages to procure from her neck. 

Sated he moves her around, pulling her flush against his chest and thinking about the life that he hopes that they will have with one another, before they fall asleep together on the settee.


End file.
